


pride, and other horizons

by saintsurvivor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Families of Choice, Gen, Mild Language, Mild Touch-Starvation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Winchester and Mental Health Issues, Season/Series 13, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 14:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12914136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsurvivor/pseuds/saintsurvivor
Summary: Jack frowns, and his fingers tap out a tune on the cover of the book. He’s learned that from him, Sam knows, and something like fondness blooms in the pit of his belly.





	pride, and other horizons

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note #1** : _pride, and other horizons_ is basically my love letter to Sam and Jack's friendship and how Sam honestly sees himself in Jack, both in his fear of his powers and his want to be something better than what he thinks he is. They're both so good and hopeful and fearful of themselves, and I love them both.  
>  **Author's Note #2** : I cannot believe Sam Winchester as adopted a small child.

_i am scared of the space i occupy_

— **Liz Bowen,** from “ _reservoir_ ,”  Sugarblood 

Hot and sticky, the wet honeysuckle warmth of August Louisiana was almost overbearing. The strained croons of Holly Golightly and the Brokeoffs made it that bit more bearable, barely muffling the thump-thud of the Impala’s wheels on the steaming blacktop.

Slowly, the tones of _Whoopie Ti Yi Yo_ faded out, leaving nothing but the sounds of Jack in the backseat, slowly eating his way through a bag of nougat, and the assortment of sandwiches Sam had made and stashed away in the car for him, the creak of leather as Dean fisted his hands against the steering wheel, the hum of bees in the countryside.

The tape flips, and the upbeat strains of another song slowly filter through. Dean immediately starts tapping his fingers against the leather, the rolled down window letting the words escape, the barely existence breeze scattering them over the shimmering road.

“ _Ain’t nobody gonna love you like the devil do, ain’t nobody gonna love you the devil do-_ ,”

Sam shudders, rolls his shoulder back, reaches forward and ejects the tape.

“Hey!” Dean scowls, slaps at Sam’s hand.

Sam shakes his head, tips his face so he can see Jack from the corner of his eye. Jack’s reading, pressed up tight against the passenger side door on Sam’s side. He’s got his head buried into one of Sam’s fictional crime books, and something about seeing him so relaxed makes something like softened wax well up in Sam’s belly.

“Another tape, sorry,” He says, ducks his hand out from beneath Deans.

Dean huffs, rolls his eyes, shoves his hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He’s already sweated through his undervest, dark grey stains marring under his arms, his back, his chest. Both of their flannels shoved in between them on the bench seat, sweat dark and dirt stained, on the sun stained leather of the Impala.

“Yeah, whatever man,” Dean says, but there’s something in his gaze, the way he doesn’t say anything else that makes Sam think that he realizes why Sam can never listen to Holly Golightly’s _Devil Do_ again.

So Sam huffs, ruffles around in the cassette collection that’s been collecting more and more throughout the years. He settles on Creedence Clearwater Revival, shoves the closest tape in, taps a tuneless rhythm on his crossed legs.

 _Proud Mary_ ’s sharp guitar riffs shoot through the car, and Dean catches Sam’s eyes and they both snort. There’s something both sick and amusing about the lyrics of _Proud Mary_ , but it’s still one of their favourite Creedence songs, especially in the way that Mary, their mother, had laughed and laughed when she’d heard it playing over the radio in the bunker.

The buzz of bees get louder, and Dean grimaces, wipes his hand over his forehead, damp with sweat.

“Man, I hate Louisiana weather, always so damn hot,” He grouses, as if he wasn’t the one who wanted to do the job in Lafayette, Louisiana instead of up north, where it was getting chillier.

“That’s because you always burn into one huge freckle,” Sam says absently, tracking the play of trees and their shadows across the boiling blacktop, slumped down in the passenger seat. Dean scoffs, turns his head to look at Sam. Sam grins, mouth spread wide. He’s missed this. Missed his _brother_.

“I do _not_ ,” Dean complains, even as he swears when he catches a blister forming on his nose from sunburn.

“Of course, Dean,” Sam says placidly, smiles blankly, and gently pokes Dean in the shoulder he can reach just to hear Dean yelp a little.

“Quit it, bitch!” Dean growls, one hand swatting at Sam’s head. Sam ducks, pulls back, laughing.

He still remembers that day, back in May of 1998, down south in New Orleans on a werewolf hunt, John sweating through his heavy duty jeans and short sleeves, tanned almost twenty shades darker than normal, beard shaved; Dean red as anything in thin sweats and a tank top, burning into one giant freckle.

Sam, in cut offs and a top that was once Deans, laughing himself stupid at them both, a deep bronzed gold himself.

Dean’s probably thinking of the same day, with how he scowls at Sam, huffing through his mouth and grimacing as he scratches his nose.

The tape flips again, and the strains of _Heard It Through The Grapevine_ tumbles through the car and out through the window to scatter against the heat-shimmering blacktop. Sam grins, leans into the sun warm leather of the Impala.

“I like this song,” Jack muses around a mouthful of nougat, hair falling into his eyes as he peers over _Keeping the Dead_. He’s already more than half way through, despite the fact Sam knows he only started the book half an hour back, when they were just leaving Lafayette.

“Yeah?” Sam says, turns in his seat so his back is against the inside of the door, shoves his hair behind his ear. Some of its already escaped from the little bun he’s managed to pull half of it into, but it means that it’s not in his already sweat damp face, sticking to the back of his neck, so he doesn’t complain. “Any other ones you like?”

Jack frowns, and his fingers tap out a tune on the cover of the book. He’s learned that from him, Sam knows, and something like fondness blooms in the pit of his belly.

“I like the shouty music,” Jack says, a grin tilting his lips as he watches Sam laugh. Sam throws his head back, laughs loudly. “AD/DC was very good, I liked it alot,”

Dean laughs, shakes his head. “AC/DC, kid,” He says, sinking into the driver’s seat, soft like butter in how he melts in the hot Louisiana weather.

Jack ducks his head, cheeks flushes red, doesn’t say anything. Dean rolls his eyes, even as Sam smiles. Sam reaches an arm around to touch Jack on the shoulder, muss his hair slightly. Jack peers up through his ruffled hair, a grin playing on the edge of this mouth.

“Cas likes the shouty music, too,” He says, watches how Jack unfurls like a flower at the news that he has something in common with Castiel.

“Really?” Jack asks, and there’s something like excitement lurking in his eyes as he leans forward, rests his shoulder against the back of Sam’s seat. Something Sam doesn’t like to pay attention sits, like oil, in the pit of his belly.

He’s happy, really, that Castiel is back. Remembers smelling the burn of cloth and flesh and hair on the breeze, the way Castiel’s body had burnt, the way Sam hadn’t been able to think that Castiel had been _truly_ gone.

But Sam can’t deny that when he saw Castiel and Jack embracing in the bunker, Castiel with his grace-bright eyes and Jack with his face lit up from inside, that Sam had felt, not _jealous_ , but….longing, maybe. Wistful.

“Yeah, his favourites definitely _Back in Black_ ,” Sam says, because even though he may be longing for the relationship that Castiel has with Jack, it doesn’t mean he’s that type of asshole.

He loves Jack, can’t help the way he treats him like a son, like family, and he loves Castiel too, in a way he can really put into words, and so helping them bond is something that makes Sam happy, too.

“I don’t think I’ve heard that one,” Jack frowns, grips the cover of _Keeping the Dead_ in slender fingers. He looks upset, and Sam can’t help how his heart goes out to him.

“Listen,” He says, phone almost dwarfed by his hand. He brings up _Back In Black_ , passes it over to Jack even as Dean glances at them from the corner of his eye, an expression on his face that Sam can’t even begin to try and work out.

 _“Back in black, I hit the sack, I’ve been too long, I’m glad to be back…_ ,” As the tones of _Back In Black_ sound from his phone, just a little tinny, Sam can’t help the way he grins, resting his chin on his bicep from where it’s resting on the back of the bench seat.

Dean’s been _off_ since Castiel’s resurrection and consequent reunion with them and Jack. At first, Sam had put it off to Dean wondering why Castiel could come back and not Mary, but something just hadn’t clicked.

He doesn’t know, and it concerns him, but he knows Dean won’t let him in, will only push him further away. He’ll have to wait Dean out. He doesn't want to risk Dean trying to take it out on Jack; Sam's managed to divert Dean's attention several times from Jack, but Sam still has this niggling feeling that there'll be one time Sam isn't there.

“I like it!” Jack says, grinning brightly over the edge of the smartphone, bopping his head to AC/DC. There’s something so sweet about it that Sam grins back, shoves a stray piece of hair back from his face. He just wants so badly for Jack to happy, and if that comes at the cost of their friendship, at least Sam managed to give Jack some semblance of happiness or joy.

“Thank you,” Jack says, and he peers through his still mussed hair, eyes bright and happy. Sam grins back, helpless. He’s going to miss this.

“Alright, alright, someone turn down the friggin’ sun between you two,” Dean grumbles, even as the leather of the steering wheel creaks. “I’m gettin’ gas and something to eat, Lassie, go let your puppy out for a piss, or something,”

Sam shoots a look at Dean, who rolls his eyes. Jack looks between them, confused.

“Ah,” Jack says after a while, comprehension dawning over his face. “Dean is being A Dick,”

Sam can’t help the way he lets a laugh escape from his tightly clenched lips. Dean stomps on the brakes hard, and it sends them all flying forwards slightly, even as Dean turns around and pins Jack with a gimlet eye.

“ _What?”_ He says.

“It is what Castiel says,” Jack says, and there’s something in his eyes that lets Sam know that Jack knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Listen, Luke Skywalker,” Dean growls, pointing a threatening finger at Jack. Sam straightens, grin fading somewhat on his face. Dean is still touch and go with Jack, and Sam doesn’t want anybody getting hurt. “Just because Darth Vader says I’m a dick don’t mean you gotta, yeah?”

“What?” Jack says, and his head tilts like Castiel’s used too, all those years ago, when he was still electrified with grace.

Dena groans, shoves a hand over his face.

“This is your fault,” Dean shoots at Sam, and Sam just grins, leans over the bench to high five Jack, who does so with a slightly confused expression.

“How?” Sam asks, raises his eyebrows. Dean mutters something under his breath, shoving the Impala back into gear and letting the thump-thud of the wheels start up again over the melting blacktop.

“With your freakin’ nerdisms, teaching him the wrong friggin’ things, gonna end up as a nun or something-,”

“Of course, Dean,” Sam says, placidly, smiling brightly at Jack through the rearview mirror as they pull off left, towards the towering sign of the _OPEN_ gas station. The blacktop shimmers in the burning sunshine, and Jack grins just as brightly back at Sam

Dean rolls his eyes, shoves open the door, shuddering in the too heavy heat that rushes at them through the open door, heavy duty boots _thump thudding_ on the steaming gravel of the gas station.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, abrupt, after a while. He’s frowning still, fingers clutching the edges of his book, crinkling the pages beneath his fingers.

Sam frowns, and he reaches back to put a hand over the curve of Jack’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Sam says, ducks his head close so he can look at Jack’s face. Jack flits his eyes up to Sam, and Sam smiles. “It’s not your fault, buddy, Dean’s just grouchy,”

“But he-,” Jack starts, eyes flitting to wear Dean is stomping towards the gas station, the inside of the station bleached white in the morning sun and the lights inside. “He always makes it feel like it’s my fault,”

Sam sighs, feels his smile wavering on the very edges of his mouth. Even in the wake of Castiel’s return and all of them trying to get back onto the horse that is normal for them, Dean still refuses to see the fact that Jack _isn’t_ evil, not inherently. Dean doesn’t quite understand that the more he shouts about the fact that Jack is going to turn evil and treats Jack like he is, the more Jack is likely to _turn_ evil.

Sam just wants Jack to know that he’s loved, that he’s good, no matter who his father is nor who Dean treats him. He hopes Castiel can make Jack see that, even if Sam himself can’t.

“Jack,” Sam sighs again, and he twists further in his seat, grimacing at the feel of his sweat stained v neck caught on the sun hot leather. “Jack, it’s definitely not your fault,”

Jack slumps forward, forehead resting on the back of the bench seat. He looks dejected, and his fingers are still worrying at the very edges of the crime novel.

“He thinks I’m evil,” Jack says lowly, and he tilts his head up to look at Sam through his eyelashes, eyes glassy. Sam feels something clench in the very pit of his stomach, his chest spasm.

“You’re not evil, Jack,” Sam says, and he curves a large hand around Jack’s nape, feels the softness at the ends of his hair. His skin is damp with sweat from the hot Louisiana sun, but the connection sooths something inside of Sam that’s been roiling under his skin for _years._

“How can you be so sure, though, Sam?” Jack asks quietly.

“Look at me, Jack,” Sam says, and he keeps his hand curled around Jack’s nape, rubs the broad of his thumb over the sharp jut of Jack’s jaw like he remembers his dad doing to him. “We - _I_ \- know evil, Jack, we know evil more than probably anybody else in the world. Whether it’s monsters, or people who choose to do monstrous things, what matters isn’t what you are, but what you _do_ ,”

He rubs at Jack’s jaw with his thumb again, feels the slight trembling on it beneath his hand.

“You’re good, Jack,” Sam says, and he knows there’s pride in his voice, fondness in how he looks at Jack and he knows he shouldn’t, knows Jack thinks of _Castiel_ as his father, but he can’t help the way he looks at Jack and thinks of himself.

He pauses, thinks of all those years ago, of Sully, with his fondness and pride in all that Sam did and how Sully was just so supportive of him. He wonders, if under different circumstances, if Jack would have had a Zanna, too.

“Jack, you are so _good_. You aren’t Castiel, you aren’t Lucifer, you’re _you_ , you are Jack, and Jack is so _good_ ,” He thinks of how something had bloomed, like a flower, when Sully had said almost those exact words to him, and hopes if he can, he can give Jack even just a small portion of that feeling.

“But,” Jack says, and he stops, pauses, bites his lip. He’s leaning into Sam’s hand, looks at him straight in the eyes. “What if I’m not? What if I’m just like _him_?”

“Like who, Jack?” Sam asks, but he can’t help the sinking feeling in his belly that Jack doesn’t mean Lucifer.

“ _Dean_ ,” It’s a whisper, almost fearful. He darts his gaze towards Dean, laughing soundlessly with the woman behind the counter, grinning rakishly. Sam closes his eyes, clenches them tight for a moment. How far off the reservation everything has gone, he thinks.

“You won’t be like Dean,” Sam says lowly. Something must show on his face because it makes Jack fall silent, staring with wide eyes, hair brushed back from his forehead. “ _You won’t_ Jack, because you’re better than any of us, and Jack?”

“Yeah?” Jack says, and something glitters in his eyes that Sam can’t quite make out, the ghost of an emotion just lingering beneath the surface.

Sam smiles, soft and fond, clasps his other hand around Jack’s neck, rubs both his thumbs at the sharp jut of Jack’s jaw.

“I’m _proud_ of you,” Sam says, and something dawns like the morning sun over Jack’s face, something bright and happy and it makes something rise in the back of Sam’s throat. “I know you’d rather hear it from Cas, but, Jack, _God_ , I’m so proud of you, and you should be proud of yourself too,”

For the longest time, Jack’s silent. Simply staring up at Sam with those wide eyes and his mouth just open, taken aback.

“Thank you,” He says, in that abrupt way Jack always has. He reaches out, touches his fingers to Sam’s wrists and it’s electric gracelight, the feel of ocean waves pressing against his chest, his ribs and Sam inhales, drowning, silverlit in the oncoming darkness.

“And Sam?” Jack says, keeps his eyes on Sams, and it’s like slowly sinking into a calm sea as Jack’s eyes glow from afar, some distant power illuminated just beneath his skin. “I’m glad I heard it from you,”

Sam flushes, pats Jack on the cheek one more time, feels something warm rise in his chest as Jack grins, lopsided at him, eyes aglow with happiness rather than gracelight this time.

“Hope you got all your touchy feely chickflick moments out your system,” Dean says, and Sam jumps, grinning at how Jack laughs under his breath, leaning back against the sun warmed leather.

“Hardy har har,” Sam says, shoots Dean a look as Dean pulls open the Impala door, sweat dripping down his forehead, sizzling as it touches the red hot metal.

“Don’t come coming to me when you turn into a pair of bitches,” Dean says, settling into the driver’s seat. Jack pulls a face even as Sam rolls his eyes.

“No need for that kind of gendered insult,” Sam says, leaning forward and ejecting Creedence Clearwater Revival. “Any preference on music, Jack?”

“Can we have the country shouty music again?” Jack asks, even as he settles back into the passenger back seat, mouth full of nougat as he gets started in on _Keeping the Dead_ once more.

Dean groans immediately.

“ _Urgh_ , should have know that you’d infect him with your music, dude,” He shoots at Sam. Sam grins, wide, slaps a palm against Jacks, before rifling through the cassettes for The Dirty River Boys.

As Dean puts the Impala into drive and pulls away from the gas station, _Down By The River_ rumbles through the speakers.

As the chorus builds, both Sam and Jack loudly sing; _“Undertaker said there ain’t no law, cross that river you never come back,”_ to Dean’s disgusted noises.

The blacktop shimmers in the hot Louisiana sun, but Jack’s loud singing and laughter warms Sam through even more than Dean’s grudging smile

_Listen — are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?_

— **Mary Oliver** , from “ _Have You Ever Tried To Enter The Long Black Branches,”_

  
  
  
  



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